Age of Conan: Hyborian Adventures
by Kieranfoy
Summary: It is an age of darkness. Forces close in around the once-proud Kingdom of Aquilonia from all sides. Only an intrepid band of adeventurers can save it. Rated R for language and violence.
1. A Darkend Shroud and a Stained Map

**AGE OF CONAN: Hyborian Adventures.**

_Know, oh seeker of truths, that between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars — Nemedia, Ophir, Brythunia, Hyperborea, Zamora with its dark-haired women and towers of spider-haunted mystery, Zingara with its chivalry, Koth that bordered on the pastoral lands of Shem, Stygia with its shadow-guarded tombs, Hyrkania whose riders wore steel and silk and gold. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Aquilonia, reigning supreme in the dreaming west. Hither came Conan, the Cimmerian, black-haired, sullen-eyed, sword in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the Earth under his sandalled feet."_

— _The Nemedian Chronicles._

The sun had set. Darkness covered the land of Aquilonia. Dusk had long since surrendered it's warm glow to the dark and bitter cold of deepest autumn night. The ebon night lay like a tattered black cloak around the shoulders of Tarantia, the capital of Aquilonia, greatest empire of the world.

In the middle of the fair city, was a palace. In the day, it was a place of politics, a center of power, a house of governance. A den of serpents, admittedly, but where else would the Byzantine politics of an empire be worked out and recorded in letters of blood?

At night, it was different.

Quiet, almost a tomb; except that it was the silence of rest, not of death. Funny thing, silence. It had a voice to it, a tone. One could almost hear the silence speak, if one listened closely. The one who sat on the throne could. He had spent many a long night listening to the silence, when all others had gone to their beds. He did not sleep. No, the crown that he wore upon his troubled brow would not let him. His burdens where crueler than any he had inflicted on his foes.

The firelight illuminated his face. There, do you see it? No? Look closely, then. Watch as the shifting glow of the fires, burning in ornate stone holders by the throne, burning fragrant cedar, show his face. Watch as they highlight the chiseled planes of his face, his dark hair, his sullen eyes. See the dark circles, the weary gaze that stares at nothing, see the emptiness.

You look upon a man, a king, who is waiting to die.

You see a wolf that has been cornered by the hunters, and awaits the _coup de grace._

You see a king, whose kingdom is dying.

You see a hero, in an Age that is done with heroes.

Conan sighs bitterly. "A murrain on such thoughts," he growls to himself, rising from his throne. "More wine, and perhaps such thoughts will leave my aching head." He staggers towards a table, his stride ruined by drink, weariness, and apathy. In front of him, glowing in the soft light, is a golden goblet, and a pitcher of wine. They seem to call to him, saying, "Come. We will ease your sorrow." Like a moth to a flame, the king of a once proud nation staggers onward.

Now, let us leave the brave king for a time. We journey out of the room, we leave the palace, we depart the Royal Square. Instead, we hurry swiftly to the outer wall, to the West Wall. Why, you ask? Why, we've an appointment, of course.

Shadows cloak the gate. There are no torches, save a small one outside the guardhouse, and that has burned down to a smoldering cinder or two. The smell of ale and the sound of snores are open testament to the fact that the gate is all but unguarded. The hooded figure that slips through the gate knows this well. After all, it is the cloaked figure who arranged for a drugged pot of ale to be delivered to the guardsman. The wench who delivered it, the figure notes with distaste, is sprawled across the guard's lap, her skirt hiked up around her ears, also asleep.

The shadow is content. This lessens the possibility of detection.

It does not stride through the open streets to its destination. It does not, after all, want to die. Instead, the cloaked figure keeps to the complex network of alleys that cover Tarantia like a giant spider web of stone and mortar. This image plays across the mind of the shadow, who smiles in amusement.

Ah, there, you see? Things do come full circle; here we are, back at the palace.

The shadow ducks into those few spaces not covered in firelight, avoiding the sight of the watchful- if sleepy- Palace Guard. From one shadows to the other, eventually working its way up a convenient trellis (which it makes note of), onto the roof, and across.

Ah, we must be careful, now, mustn't we? The roofs of the city are damp this time of year, damp and slippery. A fall would be an embarrassing way to die, for one who has slain so many.

Down, now, using ornate stone gargoyles as hand holds. A short drop from the lowest one, a shimmy down a wide column, and the figure is in the Hall of the King.

Conan, meanwhile, has the goblet of wine in one hand, but has yet to drink from it. Instead, he stares into the distance. Is he remembering the days of his youth? Is he planning the day's work ahead? Does he think at all? One cannot tell. He shakes himself from his stupor, and turns to a large map on the table. He has been perusing this, ever since he came to get his wine. Ah, he's a strong-willed lad, is this king. He denied himself the indulgence of wine, and chose to see to his duty.

His back is turned to the figure, who rushes at the defenseless king, drawing its knife, plunging it down in a strike against his helpless back.

The king whirls, his long hair swirling about his face, and grabs the arms of his attacker, throwing it to the ground. The hood of the cloak falls back, revealing… a woman!

Her hair is dark, and braided with bones. Her eyes are dark, and her tanned skin is broken by stark green tattoos. The expressions on both the faces of the king and his would-be-assassin reveal her to be nothing of the sort.

"You grow careless, my king," she says mildly.

"Bah!" Conan snorts. "You made enough noise to wake a drunken Nemedian." His tone is gruff, but also playful. He casually hauls her to her feet, pushing her away from him. "Now," he growls. "What news from your spies?"

Her expression becomes serious, perhaps even troubled. As her normal expression is one of cold calculation, it's difficult to tell. "The hill tribes of Cimmeria hold our northern borders, Sire, but they cannot last." She clasps her hands behind her back in military fashion, her precision at odds with her barbaric appearance, and strides over to the map table. "In the west, Picts gather in force, while to the east the scheming Nemedians break your truce." She pointed to each location with her dagger. "From beyond the River Styx, an ancient evil crawls from the tombs of Stygia towards out southern border."

"Aye," the king growls. "We are surrounded and outnumbered." His eyes go distant, ad if he remembers all the times when 'surrounded and outnumbered' meant 'him against three other warriors in hand to hand combat.'

"But what now, My Lord?" the woman demands.

"Now," he replies coolly, "we sound the bells of wars. We shall call upon every strong arm and sharp sword to fight; we will bring them to their knees and see them crushed by the fury of our kingdom!" He slams his fist into the table. His goblet of wine tips over as the table shudders; the red wine flowing across the map like the river of blood the woman is sure will flow over the lands as the result of his wrath. "Send out the call, Zakhara. Call all the mercenary companies, all the free-lancers. Muster every armed force we have. Institute a draft if need be; even call upon those damn priests in their stinking temples to cast spells upon our foes!"

His gaze pierced her to the core. "I will not let my kingdom fail!"


	2. Sounding the Bells of War

SOUNDING THE BELLS.

Ah, Tortage. Cesspit of sin and depravity. They call it the jewel of the Barachan Islands. Feh. If it's a jewel, it has sharp edges. The wharfs crawl with out of work sailors, whores, and those who are both. I could smell the stench, even from here, and I was on a Danu-blighted boat.

Ah, how sweet. You want to know who I am. You don't really need to, as I won't be guiding you long, but why not? My name is Zakhara, spy and assassin for King Conan I, ruler of Aquilonia. He has a few other titles, but no one but the Master of Ceremonies knows them. Between you and me, whoever you are, I think he's embarrassed by them.

The king, I should say. If titles were flesh, the Master of Ceremonies would wed them. As long as it didn't interfere with the steady stream of boyfriends in his bed, that is.

"Pull into the dock, ya poxy whoresons!" the Captain of the ship roared at his crew. He didn't bother to apologize for his language like he did the first time he swore. I suppose being treated to the filthiest epithets of five different languages by a woman traumatized him. Men. So foolish.

I disembarked once the ship had docked. The docks of Tortage are hardly an improvement. They're filthy, and the carrion that infest them are worse than any rat, by my lights. Even a black rat would carry only half the fleas and a tenth of the plagues. Probably because a rat is more discriminating in what it'll screw. These louts would screw the whores, screw the goats, screw the boys, maybe even screw each other.

Judging by the wolf-whistles I attracted, they'd have no objections to screwing me.

"Hey, wench," one of the louts called. Me, a wench? The fool deserves the painful death he's earning. "Looking for a ride?" He patted the cart next to him, clearly attempting to produce a double entendre.

"No," I said coldly. "I don't want to sit on a rusty nail." He wants innuendo? Let him have it. "Though I dare say any nails that manage to stick up will be so small as to go unnoticed." I left him pondering the insult, as his buffoonish counterparts laughed their heads off.

Tortage, as I said, is famed for its criminals. While the government must do its best to suppress such things, occasionally we have uses for some types of scum. Not street scum, of course. The more… elevated type. Assassins, spies, thieves, poisoners… all have their uses.

The one I was to recruit for His Majesty was an assassin. No, I take that back. He was _the_ assassin. Keldar Virakos. He had tutored many of the best slayers in the world. He had even taught me, once upon a time. His name was legend. He had assassinated the High Priest of Set in the middle of midnight devotions. With a single knife. A dull and poorly balanced one, at that.

We needed him.

We would get him.

But where the hell was he?

Yeah, that's a problem, alright. Well, there's one place to go when you want to learn something, and I'm not speaking of the upper-classes favorite tea-rooms. Well, a tavern it is.

)))

I stood in the door for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. The tavern was dark, but all good taverns are. A tavern that's brightly lit can't conceal the various illicit, immoral, and frankly disgusting things that occur in the open.

After my eyes had adjusted, I walked up to the bar, avoiding several low tables and a fornicating couple (honestly, right on the floor, and plenty noisy; this was a dive), plunked myself in front of the barkeep, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed his head against the bar.

It saves time, I've found.

"I want you to listen," I hissed in his ear. "And I want you to answer." You'd think someone would have so much as looked up, but no. This was just that sort of place, I guess.

"Go to any of the hells yah want, but shag off!" he snarled, raising one arm, knife in hand. Oh, please. With his face pressed against the bar, he couldn't hit an elephant. I grabbed his arm, twisted it, and hyper extended the joint. "Yarrrgh," he screeched in agony, dropping the knife.

"Now, that was stupid," I told him. "I'll give you another chance to be smart. Take my advice, and don't mess up."

"Whaddya want?" he squealed.

"Better. Where's Keldar Virakos?"

"How the hells should I- aaarrrrggghhh! Alright, alright! I don't know exactly, but they say ya can get a hold of him in the temple of Derkata."

"The fertility goddess?" I asked, disgusted.

"Nah. Here they think she's a death goddess. Go figger. Let me up, will ya?"

I let him up. I didn't want to be touching the slime for any longer than I had to.

"You know," he said, "you're pretty heartless for such a pretty lady."

"Do you want to die?" I hissed.

"Ah, no. I'd rather not."

I shrugged. "To bad," I said callously, drawing my knife fro it's sheth with one hand and grabbing his collar with the other. With one slash, I sliced his throat open.

And no one even looked.

I drew out a small coin, tossed it on the counter, and muttered, "Sorry about the mess," to the world in general.

)))

The temple of Derketa was overly fond of skull and bone motifs, but at least it was quiet. I had to approve of that. The priests were garbed head to toe in tattered black shrouds, and looked like ghosts themselves. They ignored me, even when I tried to speak with them. I drew the line at killing them, mostly because death-priests would have some nasty magic at their command.

"You're getting slow, Zakhara," a dry, whispery voice said from behind me. "I could have killed you ten different times since you entered."

"Only a fool or a madman would kill someone in a death-gods temple," I replied, turning.

"Some say that I am mad," he replied. He was… nondescript. Clothed in faded brown riding leathers and a dark cloak, he looked like any traveler come to Tortage to get stinking drunk, and go whoring in the islands famous brothels. Somehow, I doubted that was the reason he was here. "Why have you come?" he asked, echoing my thoughts.

"You know of Aquilonia?"

"I am not blind. Yes, I know of the greatest kingdom of this world."

"You know that it is on the verge of collapse?"

"Of course."

"Then," I replied, "you know why I have come."

)))

The warm sun of Stygia beat down on our backs, as we sat upon out respective elephants. We had been posing as rich merchants who had lost track of their caravan, and had joined that of lord Rachmal Hazrakhar.

We had taken a small road from Kordava to Poitain, where we walked along the Pe'shar trade route. It was here that Lord Hazrakhar had found us walking, our clothes near in rags and out of food and drink. Fortunately Lord Hazrakhar was generous man, only too happy to aid us. In return for future favors, of course, but at least he wasn't crude enough to put it that way.

Fortune favored us. His caravan was taking certain luxury items (spices, liquors, silks, ivory, and herbs- some of those frankly intoxicating, others no more than rare teas) to the mages of Kheshatta. Apparently, the wizards were fond of drinking and smoking during certain phases of the moon or alignments of the stars and whatever other stuff. They called it 'wizardly meditation.' I called it 'getting well stoked.'

Kheshatta lay right on the trade route to Kush. While the wizards tended to buy the herbs- along with rare artifacts and grimoires, but Lord Hazrakhar didn't touch those things- sometimes they bought Kushite slaves for labor, or rare animal furs from the Kushite savanna.

Lord Hazrakhar was hopeful of getting an excellent amount of trading, as Kheshatta was hardly a popular choice for merchants. Kheshatta, you see, was a city of wizards. Black Wizards, I should say, and I don't mean that they had dark skin. They had delved into the darker sorts of magics. Demon summoning, necromancy, human sacrifice; these wizards knew no limits.

And there was one among them that I was supposed to recruit. I could almost get to hate King Conan.

Our caravan rode in fine style through the city gates, passing by the snoozing gate guards. Why do gate guards never guard? Is this a universal problem? I swore to myself that when I got back home, I would whip the guards back into shape.

We passed into the foreign quarter as we walked to our quarters. The guards had not woken, but there had been a horde of servants waiting to take out elephants to the merchants stables. They _claimed _that free places in the stables were a service that Kheshatta gave to all honored guests, but I assumed that it was a good way to keep us here until the wizards had finished their shopping trips.

Well, now all we had to do was find this Zalric Ahvenn. Zalric was an Aquilonian expatriate who had taken up traveling to learn the magical arts, and avoid club-wielding tax collectors. He was said to… he was right in front of us. This grows too convenient to be trusted, but I've no other choice, do I?

He was sitting on an overturned crate, sipping from a small earthenware cup, and chatting with a priestess of Set. I did my best to get close enough to hear their discussion. "You see, therefore, there can be no evidence of the innate superiority of the male, because there is none! There is no innate superiority."

"But how, then, do you explain the fact that a majority of cultures around the world hold a different opinion?" It was clear that she agreed with him, and was only playing the demon's Advocate for entertainment. Most culture believe that there innate mental differences between the sexes."

"Not at all. These differences are entirely cultural."

"But where does the culture get the idea?"

"Well, that is a good question. I would say that, in the beginnings of civilization, people were mostly agrarian. Given that farming requires little brute strength, both genders could be equal. Later, when people turned to warfare, the greater strength of the male allowed men to dominate society. Thus arose the concept of female inferiority, which affects women to this day. They are convinced that they are suitable for nothing but needlework and… pleasure, and this believe makes it so. They pass this belief down to their children, who come to believe it."  
"But then, in practical terms, what is the difference between an innate difference and self-perpetuating cultural difference?"

"One," he answered smugly, "is unchangeable. The other is not."

"Ah."

I truly hated to interrupt this, I truly did, but I had to speak with him. "You," I said, "are the wizard Zalric Ahvenn, are you not?"

"And what could that possibly matter to you, my lady?" he asked formally, an edge of distrust hidden in the velvet of his courtly words.

"My name," I said, cutting to the meat of the matter, "is Zakhara. I am an emissary of King Conan of Aquilonia. We have heard of your prowess in the magical arts, and wish to retain your services." He went up somewhat in my opinion when he did not seem to see 'services' as a double entendre in the slightest. Fortunate, too; the king would have been angered had I slain him.

And so, three there were who set out from Kheshatta. Next stop, the tribes of Cimmeria. My people.


End file.
